


When Skies Are Grey

by marchionessofblackadder



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:18:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchionessofblackadder/pseuds/marchionessofblackadder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'll never know how much she loves him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Skies Are Grey

**Author's Note:**

> After one year, today, since Karner Blue, this is how it ends. Please read that first, so you will be prepared for this.
> 
> Thank you so much to Ched and Sco, for giving me emotional support for writing this.

A damp, chilled twilight was hovering over the sleepy town as Belle French walked with slow, careful steps and the heaviest of hearts back to her dusty library. The lock jolted staunchly beneath her fingers, and in the back of her clouded mind she remembered rushing out too quickly to lock the door, leaving a melancholy Mary Margaret in her wake to rush to the hospital.

A painful knot as prickly and aching as a nest of thorns swelled in her throat as she tried to control her breathing, stepping inside and turning the lock quickly, drawing the shades on the doors before resting her forehead against the cold wood. Her nose was congested, her eyes red rimmed and aching with a pounding headache building behind them, and the sore, bruised loosening of her muscles in her back and shoulders left her feeling spent. She had spent all afternoon at the hospital, and with a laden heart she turned to carry herself upstairs to her little apartment with its cozy warmth, gilded iron framed bed, and rose printed sheets when she stopped dead in her tracks.

Atop the circulation desk, coiled in a pretty heap, was the rich blue scarf she’d knit for Mr. Gold. For a moment, just a singular moment long enough for her to stride to the desk and snatch it up beneath her chin, she could smell the musky leather and black tea that clung to his overcoat, and her heart was flying into her mouth before she could stop it.

He was alright. He was here.

Why did she doubt?

“Mr. Gold?” Belle said in a trembling voice, closer to a cry than a call, her smile nearer a sob, rushing deep into the library where the shelves began to meet, looking up each aisle eagerly. “Mr. Gold, are you in here?”

Every turn of her head only saw another empty aisle, though, and by the time she reached the end of the shelves, Belle’s humming heart began to wither as the moment passed, and she realized through the numbness of her cold fingers that the scarf was wet.

Wet from ice, from the sidewalk, from the accident that had truly happened after all.

It wasn’t like the novels she’d read, where the heroine experiencing loss or tragedy gracefully slid down the wall weeping. It was a painful drop, her knees losing strength only to strike the tiled floor hard. It rendered a tear in her stockings and nearly twisted her ankle, and when she tried to cry out, nothing happened but a choked sound, her mouth open in muted hurt. Nothing would come out, but when she took a breath it was a trembling, hiccuping cry that nearly burst her lungs. Hot tears stung her eyes, puddling like a child’s, and she pressed the scarf to her neck beneath her chin to quench the aching throb there.

“Help-” Belle’s voice crackled, hoarse with pain and rough with tears as she squeezed the bunch of yarn between her hands tight until her knuckles went white, her heels scraping at the floor to shove herself back against the wall. “I can’t bre- I can’t breathe- I can’t breathe-”

Rocking once, twice, she knocked the air from her lungs, the tears from her eyes, and finally the thorny sobs that had been caged in her throat. They were ugly, harsh, and hurt more than helped. She folded her arms over her chest, her face pulled tight as she cried against her knees, her torn stockings wetting with residue of eyes, nose, and mouth, and she didn’t stop until the outside darkness had swallowed the library. She’d fallen to her side, curled in a ball without realizing it, the bit of blue yarn tucked against her breast like a dragon’s treasure.

But as heavy as her heart weighed in her chest, the cold floor was making all of her hurts that much worse. It was a struggle to get to her feet, and she barely remembered to shut the lights off as she took the steps slowly upstairs. Locking her door, Belle was only dimly aware of toeing her boots off on her way to her creaky, comfy little bed beneath the lone window in the lofty apartment. Shrugging out of her blazer, wriggling out of her skirt, peeling her stockings and blouse away, she crawled into bed, the sheets damp and cold.

Her last thought before falling into a dreamless sleep was hoping, hoping _so much_ that her Mr. Gold had not felt so cold without his scarf.

It was a thought that haunted her until the next day, though Belle was sure it was just a horrible dream. Locking herself away in the library was her first instinct, and she felt it was a good one the morning she got up just after dawn. She’d slept all through the early evening and night, a deep darkness with a mind numbing effect that, when she woke up, had seemed to wipe her memory for the few brief moments she watched the dust dancing in the early morning sun.

The memories of the day before felt unreachable across a great divide. Sirens and monitors, paperwork and broad medical terminology she couldn’t understand. Alternated cerebral blood flow, intracranial hypertension, and epidural hematoma were thrown around by Dr. Whale until Belle wasn’t sure he had even been speaking English. A hot, viscous anger twined about her heart wondering if perhaps he could have done more if he hadn’t wasted time spouting off so many words, but even that wasn’t enough to stir her into action. After brewing her morning tea, Belle leaned against the lone window in her little apartment and watched as the small town of Storybrooke came alive.

It didn’t feel real.

It felt like any other morning, any other day, and that was the worst feeling in the world when everything had broken. It shouldn’t feel familiar or normal, and she couldn’t force the truth no matter how hard she tried, nor how badly she didn’t want to.

It was just as well she stayed inside behind locked doors, for the ice from the night before was buried beneath heaping piles of snow. It took her all morning to find the wherewithal to dress and ready herself, and she spent it in quiet solitude in the library, labeling the books from the elementary school’s book fair with passive lethargy, only breaking when a sudden violent struggle on the library’s locked doors jolted her out of the silence.

Waiting without breathing, Belle could hear the person on the other side of the doors stamping their feet in the snow before they tried pulling at the locked doors again. Keeping her eyes on the doors, she reached beneath the circulation desk, her petite hand finding the smooth wood of the baseball bat Mr. Gold had given her from his shop. He’d claimed that his cane was a deadly weapon, and though it would take all the strength she had, it would serve her well should she ever need to defend herself.

Suddenly, there was a loud knocking at the window, and a deep voice rumbled, “Miss French, if you’re inside, I need to speak with you!”

The voice was unrecognizable, but it startled her more to hear her name. Setting the bat back down gently, Belle grabbed her keys and scurried out from behind the confines of her desk, her blanket dropping from her legs and her little space heater leaving her bereft of the warmth. Unlocking the doors, she yanked them open, blinking against the blinding light reflecting off the white landscape and allowed the patron entrance. The man was tall, barrel chested, and his voice had a presence of its own. After she shut the door firmly, he removed his tweed cap, dusting the snow off the top before smoothing his gloved hand over his bald head. He squinted at her, and Belle felt as though she should have been intimidated. Instead, she was merely curious.

“You’re Miss French?” he asked dubiously.

“So they say,” Belle murmured, narrowing her eyes a bit before moving back to her counter. She pulled her blanket back up around her legs as she sat upon her cushioned stool once more, scooting forward so her stockinged feet were cozy near the heater once more. “Can I help you? I’m afraid the library’s not open yet.”

The man stared at her for a long moment before slowly approaching the counter, pulling his gloves off by one finger at a time before tucking them in his coat pocket. “Miss French,” he said again, his voice strained, an odd sound on such a deep timbre. “My name is Albert Spencer. I’m the district attorney.”

“Oh,” Belle raised her eyebrows, blinking quickly. She tried to figure out if she’d ever seen the man before, but his name was certainly familiar, for she’d read it time and again in the paper. “It’s... nice to meet you.”

“Under these circumstances, I’m afraid I can’t share your sentiment,” Mr. Spencer murmured, reaching into his briefcase that he set to the side on the desk, shuffling some papers. “I was told to contact you about the state of affairs for Mr. Gold.”

“The... state of affairs?”

The words didn’t make sense. Curiouser than ever, Belle sat forward on the edge of her seat, a restless hope spurning in her heart that perhaps something had gone wrong. Perhaps they’d misread the monitors, or a nurse happened to notice something out of the ordinary. She’d read articles about that happening all the time, and just as a smile began to grow on her face, the district attorney nodded, shuffling the papers in front of him as he took his glasses from his front coat pocket, sliding them over his ears, saying, “Yes, you’re in his will.”

Belle swallowed, and it felt like a stone dropped from her throat all the way to the bottom of her toes. Her ears began to ring and she rested her back against the chair, fearful of the cool dizziness that tingled above her eyes. She produced a fearful half whisper, “Oh, I... I see.”

Mr. Spencer paused, the papers in his hand hovering over the desk as Belle’s eyes misted with tears. Letting out a steady breath, he leaned on the desk, muttering, “Miss French, I’m not here to harass you while you grieve, but Gold knew what he was about. He was a lawyer himself, and a very capable one,” he added sourly, clearing his throat. “Everything is legally binding, of course, except one mistake.”

“Mistake?” That wasn’t her Mr. Gold. He didn’t make mistakes, especially in contracts, especially his own. Wiping beneath her eyes with the back of her fingers, Belle sat forward and waved her hand, sniffling. “May I see?”

Wordlessly, Spencer handed the document over. Belle had no wish to read it, but she didn’t trust many people to not shorthand the most hated man in town. “It’s under the heir apparent,” Mr. Spencer muttered, frowning as Belle flipped the page to the last. “He did leave a name, but it’s no one I can find in any record. There’s nothing to go on.”

Belle stared down at the signature, her own brow puckered as she read aloud, “Baelfire.”

At her puzzled look, Spencer shrugged wordlessly. “As I said before, there’s no record of a name. Not in the entire town. Until we can locate this person, Miss French, you’re going to be the heiress presumptive.”

“Me?” Belle blanched, staring unabashedly up at the looming man. Shaking her head, Belle handed the document back to him insistently, asking through her watery voice, “What of the others he’s left things to?”

“There are none,” Spencer scoffed, closing his briefcase with a sharp snap. “Gold didn’t have any family, and I’m quite certain you were the only thing close to a friend. Other than that lone name, you are the only legally binding beneficiary. His house, his business, stocks, lands-he invested the property to you. There are some things he’s set aside for this person, asking that they be bequeathed accordingly, lots of grants and bank accounts, titles, but it will all sit and collect dust unless we can find him. Or her.”

A throbbing pain had begun in the top of Belle’s head, pulsing behind her eyes. Cupping her hand to her forehead, she was barely able to nod, murmuring, “I see.” Yet, she didn’t. She truly didn’t. Mr. Gold and she had been close, more than friends even, but she couldn’t...

It wasn’t sensible for him to leave so much to her, in her hands. How could she do it? She’d only been brave enough to touch his hand over books and tin folded candies, yet he expected her capable enough to put him in the ground.

Mr. Spencer hesitated before pulling away from the circulation desk, and whatever he saw upon Belle’s face softened the lines around his mouth for just a moment. “Miss French,” he said once more, and waited until she raised her eyes to him. “Whatever the nature of your association with Mr. Gold, I can tell you that he’s left you his power and wealth. I expected him to rather see it burn than in the hands of another, yet here we are. So understand,” he paused once more, fighting something within himself to urge the words out. “Understand that your name on his testament means that he knew you, and that he trusted you with knowing him.”

Belle sat quietly, staring at the place on the checkered floor where the district attorney had stood as he crossed back to the library doors, but before he could leave, Belle called, “Wait.”

Spencer turned wordlessly, waiting until Belle roused her voice, thin and hoarse under the weight of her sadness. Her throat was tight with thorny knots again and her head began to pound with the building pressure behind her bloodshot eyes. “How could he have known?” she asked softly. “How could he have known this would happen? It was an accident, so sudden-”

“I’m sure he didn’t,” Spencer sounded surprised.

“Then... then why is my name there, in his will?” she whispered, her eyes straying to the dark briefcase at the attorney’s side. “When we only just grew... close.”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Miss French,” Spencer said gruffly, tugging on his cap. “Mr. Gold had his will finalized several months ago. I believe just after your discharge from the hospital.”

Winded, Belle couldn’t muster the words to bid the man goodday. She sat quietly, dumbfounded and horribly upset in herself, for she knew it was wrong. She had been incarcerated in the psychiatric ward up until the beginning of the fall, only meeting Mr. Gold a few days after that, but she certainly hadn’t known the man! How could he have _known_?

It was a question that haunted Belle steadily, even up to the cold, wet day of the funeral. It was an appropriately gloomy affair with most of the snow and ice having been washed away by the rain. No memorial service, no wake, and nothing in the idea of a gathering afterward. Belle arrived at the cemetery, having driven Mr. Gold’s ancient Cadillac (another relic he’d left to her, and one she was grateful for, especially since he’d taught her to drive in the thing), and as she clambered out, she was surprised to find several other cars parked along the curb. Mary Margaret was there, standing quietly with Sheriff Swan and Dr. Hopper, accompanied by his faithful Dalmatian, Pongo.

A moment of blind fear seized Belle by her throat, and she was frozen to the wet, muddy grass. She wanted to climb back into the warm car, to hide behind the windows until she could go back to her books. She wanted to pretend none of it was real, and she wanted it to be over at the same time. With her hand slipping along the window to grapple for the door handle, a soft voice jolted her violently, “Belle?”

Turning, and keeping her fingers curled securely still on the door handle, Belle blinked up at Kathryn Nolan who stood uncertainly on the sidewalk, looking at her in the deepest concern. Her pretty blonde hair was hanging in waves to frame her face, which was crumpled in near as much sadness that Belle carried in her heart.

After an awkward moment of silence, Kathryn stepped through the slick grass, clearing her throat as she made a show of watching where she put her foot, boot heels sinking into the mud, saying by way of explanation, “He gave me some of his old law books.” She smiled when she finally stepped close enough to touch the car, though she didn’t. Instead, she took Belle’s hand from the handle and tucked it into her elbow. “I’d never seen him smile until I told him I wanted to be a lawyer.”

The librarian just watched, dumbfounded and struck as the tall, elegant lady helped her gain her footing once more, and propelled them in a slow amble towards the grave site. “I think he was the only one who wasn’t surprised that I wanted to go to law school,” she said after a moment, thoughtfully. Belle half glanced at her, seeing the smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Hesitating, Kathryn looked at Belle and said, “You can have them. I mean, for the library.”

“No, he gave them to you,” Belle mumbled, turning her face back down to the wet grass that seeped through the suede of her boots. “He wanted you to have them.”

“Between you and me,” Kathryn whispered, her voice half a whimper and half conspiratorial gossip in an attempt to make a joke, “He was the most generous pawnbroker I’ve ever known.”

“Not really,” Belle said quietly as they drew closer to the small party who stood huddled in the cold, wet morning. The mist hadn’t even burned off yet. That made Belle wrinkle her nose. Anyone who knew him would have known he hadn’t been a morning person.

It wasn’t as hard as she thought, now that she stood so close. There was nothing frivolous in the affair, no flowers and no seats. Kathryn kept her arm tucked around Belle’s shoulders resolutely, whether for her own sake or Belle’s, she wasn’t sure. She expected to be washed in tears and unable to look, unable to speak, but it felt too unreal. How was such a force as Mr. Gold simply gone? An entire person, a personality, hopes and fears and dreams and wishes that make up a universe of ideas and thoughts-he had been a world, a mystery, larger than life to her. How could that simply disappear? How could a simple box hold all of that so quietly?

Belle couldn’t imagine it, though she spent the entire service trying to. It was more grounding than accepting the valueless words Dr. Hopper murmured about Mr. Gold being a strong figure in their little community, waxing lyrical about a man who’d had no time for poetry.

Strong? How could he say such a thing!

Her Mr. Gold hadn’t even been strong enough to _stand_ on his own.

When it was over, when the dirt was beginning to cover the shiny black top of the box, Kathryn rubbed Belle’s arm and said something about tea at Granny’s, but she shook her head, attempting to smile and only managing a sickened twist of her lips. "No, I think I'm going to go back to his house. The man was a packrat," she added weakly. "I have a lot to go through."

Kathryn stared, her lips parted in surprise. "Belle you-you don't have to do that now, surely..."

"I want to," Belle murmured, near snappish. She felt sweaty beneath her coat despite the chill, frowning up at the sky. If she kept looking up, she didn't have to remember where she was. "I think I'd like to be alone, and...and it's up to me to make sure everything is in order. I can do that much for him."

"Belle you did everything for him," Kathryn whispered so gently, and for the first time, Belle felt an irrational angry urge to strike someone, though violence was not in her nature. But Mrs. Nolan shook her head, dropping their arms and squeezing Belle's hand before letting her go. "I'm so sorry, Belle. I truly am."

Finally letting her eyes fall to Mrs. Nolan, who fingered her purse warily as she watched the younger woman’s face with concern, Belle wondered why she was sorry for her. Strictly speaking, Mr. Gold hadn’t been hers... not really. They hadn’t made confessions or promises, and had only exchanged a kiss that had been more chaste than handholding. A dull, aching pain constricted her chest, and Belle grimaced at the memory, turning from Kathryn and tip toeing back down through the wet grassy hillside to Mr. Gold’s car. It was still warm when she climbed back in.

The drive was silent, save for the patter of rain on the windshield that grew heavier as she drove through town. Pulling up into the driveway of Mr. Gold’s house felt strangely like an illicit activity, and at the same time oddly conspiratorial. He had trusted her with so much of his life, his material possessions, his money, his business. Belle turned the car off, listening to the engine cool as her eyes took in the red interior before she began to search the console, the glove box, the visors. She found nothing, save a small first aid kit, insurance and registration, and a receipt for dry cleaning.

Always clean, neat, and punctual, her Mr. Gold.

Finally admitting to herself that she was stalling, Belle gathered her purse and got out of the car, careful of the slippery walkway and swallowed thickly as she unlocked the front door and let herself inside.

Her first impression of the house was that it was very dark, dusty, and captivating. She could not say it was beautiful, though it was very finely made and furnished, but there was something about her that drew her into the darkened hall, going through the ground floor to flip on every light and peek into all the rooms.

So many rooms for one lonely little man.

When Belle found his study, her eyes were misty and her throat was thick with sadness. It was very easy to imagine him sitting in the fine leather chair on a rainy evening, working with numbers, wearing his slim glasses always kept in his front jacket pocket beneath his pocket square. Perhaps he’d have a cup of tea at his elbow, or maybe even some scotch (he’d mentioned liking it, once, on a rare occasion), surrounded by the towering shelves of books.

Dropping her purse on a stack of ledgers, Belle walked slowly into the study and sat warily down into the plush leather chair, looking out the windows that the desk faced. It wasn’t much of a view, mostly giving a good look at the neighbor’s white siding, but it was then when she was seated where Mr. Gold must have sat, that she noticed just beneath the window were the deepest red rose bushes. Perhaps he had opened the windows on nice days to let in the breeze and catch their perfume.

Such a detail would have delighted him.

Sitting back and folding her hands over her lap, Belle looked at his desk top. She imagined that, as neat and orderly as his appearance and manner had always been, that his private life would be the same. Instead, she found a desk littered with papers, contracts, certificates-sticky notes, torn yellow pads, and more receipts. In the disorder of it all, a gleam caught her eye, tucked between two accounting books. It was a teacup.

Plucking it up, she raised an eyebrow, remembering the china cabinet in the parlor, and left the study to go find it. Small starts to put order into his cramped and cluttered house would help keep her sane through it all.

The porcelain was fine bone china, with blue detail and gold trim. Belle smiled wider, shaking her head as she found the parlor again, slowing to a stop behind the couch and holding the cup in one hand. She inspected the simple and pretty flower pattern on the side. The rest of the service in the cabinet was silver, cold and clean, but the porcelain was thicker with a smoother finish. A small, curved chip in the rim marred the pretty piece, and Belle found herself stifling a laugh. Leave it to her Mr. Gold to find a reason to treasure something so subtly imperfect.

Something made her think that the rest of the matching set had probably been a fine collection, but no, he’d chosen the one that was ever so simply out of place to use. The idea was so much of something that he would do, Belle’s eyes misted against her smile, and she didn’t notice that in her ministrations, she was in danger until her thumb caught on the chip of the cup. It was small, sharp, and cut her deep enough to draw blood. It startled her so much so that she dropped the cup before thinking.

A thick garnet red drop of blood welled from her thumb, but it was the overwhelming heat in her heart and the humming in her mind as it filled with memory upon memory, lands torn apart by war to glittering gold skirts in a dungeon cell, to sunshine filled windows, a roaring fiery beast, love, adventure, and despair.

When Belle thought to breathe again, she remembered. And she _knew_.

“Oh-oh, no,” she whispered, dropping down onto stockinged knees upon the hardwood floor, the porcelain pieces strewn across as far as out into the hallway. Blood was running in dark rivulets down her hand, but she couldn’t even feel it. She tried to gather the pieces quickly, shakingly, holding them between her palms and willing them back together. “No, no- I’m so sorry, no, it was an- it was an accident, please-”

There were too many, too many little bits, sharp and lost for her to piece it back together, and as she fell back against the couch, staring at what she’d done, she covered her mouth with her bloodied hand. He’d kept it, he’d kept the one thing of her he thought there was left, and now it was as broken as him. Belle felt the stickiness of her own blood on her face when she pulled her hand away, tears puddling in her eyes and only able to see his warm, loving smile when she’d given him the scarf.

And she knew, she _knew_ that he had known. He had known her and remembered her, had been waiting for her, gently and sweetly, and she could have loved him her whole life, she realized, staring at the bloodied porcelain pieces she cradled in her palm. She truly would have, perhaps even there in that very house that was nothing but darkness and dust.

With her heart so utterly broken, though, Belle knew Rumpelstiltskin had chosen her to take care of his affairs for a reason, and she couldn’t allow herself to go to pieces when he trusted her with so much. Finding a burning resolve beneath her despair, Belle collected the shatters from the floor and hesitated before fetching a ziploc bag for them, feeling foolish and a child as she sobbed over the sink. She winced, pushing her her hand under the hot water, and when she was cried to the point of drying out, she wiped her face forlornly and set to work on the house.

Belle had failed to remember him, but she wouldn’t do it twice.

It was obvious that there was a change in her, and she knew that the other citizens of Storybrooke could tell. Moving boxes of valuables, of papers and books and trinkets, all his clothes and the endless antiques was a chore, but Belle threw open every curtain and window she could find until the house was filled with light.

The shop was a far more industrious of a task, but no one bothered her as she bustled to and fro, keeping as busy as she could in the days following her love’s departure, until the mayor caught wind.

Belle had been in the middle of sifting through an old trunk, seated behind the front counter top and frowning at the fake birth certificate of Mr. Gold. His cursed Christian name was just as droll as his surname, and Belle was just thinking of how Rumpelstiltskin had probably rolled his eyes over it when the little bell over the shop’s door rang merrily at the entrance of the Evil Queen.

Sitting up straight, feeling for once in her life in this new world more lion than rabbit, Belle held her ground as the beautiful woman approached the counter, pausing as she took Belle in before giving a sudden, surprised laugh. “Why so hostile, Miss French?”

Realizing she was glaring at the woman, but too determined to play it off as anything but the truth, Belle was proud to find her voice as quiet, careful, and even as Rumpelstiltskin’s could be at his most terrifying moments and said, “I think you know perfectly well, your majesty.”

Regina Mills’ dark eyes glittered, her face remaining perfectly stoic in her surprise. Belle didn’t let the moment cool, instead setting aside the birth certificate and glancing back into the trunk. “But since you’re here, I might as well ask you my questions,” Belle paused, thinking of the ones that needed tending to most urgently and let her hands fall back into her lap, pinning her eyes on the queen. “Why here? Why bring us all here, now?”

“I beg your pardon,” Regina took a step back, her fingers curling into fists at her sides as she stared at Belle apprehensively.

Seeing that she truly didn’t understand, Belle shook her head. “I don’t understand why you would bring us here, miserable. You enacted a curse-and I know it was you, your handiwork is all over this mess,” she gestured to the birth certificate and other forged documents, sniffing. “But you could have taken us anywhere. Why choose such a small little town where no one cares about us? Why not another realm, where you could be even more powerful?”

Belle was pleased to see Regina think, to pause and consider before answering. She wasn’t going to lie to her or waste her time, at least. Finally, the queen shook her head, coming to stand before the counter with her hands resting on the edge, and met Belle’s gaze, saying, “You’re right, I enacted the curse, but I didn’t choose to bring us here because I didn’t make it. That was your monster’s doing.”

“My mo-” Eyes flashing, Belle leapt up from her stool so quickly that it knocked over, startling Regina as the tiny slip of a girl rounded the counter, backing her up and thrusting her finger up at the queen’s face. “Hear me now, your majesty, and hear me well,” Belle nearly growled, for once letting her anger override her sense of self-preservation. “You took everything from these people, and I am a woman who has lost much. I have no qualms about finishing Rumpelstiltskin’s work-and I will finish it,” she added with relish at how quickly the queen’s face paled. “And if it includes finding a way to wake up the others of the Enchanted Forest, if I have to be admitted to that cold basement again-I’ll do it.”

“Why,” Regina breathed, her eyes widening in shock and-Belle shivered-awe. “Why would you do something so foolish, you silly girl?”

“Because you will say his name when you speak to me about him,” Belle whispered, feeling her teeth bare like a lion’s. “If you’ve the privilege to know it, you should be brave enough to say it.”

Regina stared at Belle, hard and irate for a long moment before she whispered, “As much as I hated the bastard, Miss French, I owe him a lot. Don’t be so quick to think that I don’t know that.”

An idea alighted in Belle’s mind, and she hesitated. “If that’s so,” she said, her voice careful. “I want something from you, for him.”

When she heard the bell ring a few moments later as the queen left, Belle finally relaxed, laying her head on her hands and staring at the newly fixed teacup. The veins of the broken pieces were visible, and she couldn’t help but think that had Rumpelstiltskin been the one to do it, that it would have been perfect once more. As it was, the marred porcelain was made her lightheaded to see it whole again, a thrilling satisfaction as it sat atop the fake birth certificate and other papers she’d found. She stayed there a while, breathing in the scent of old leather and dust before her eyes noticed one of the papers that stuck out from the bottom of the stack, thicker parchment and stained.

Frowning, Belle gently pulled out a scratchy sketch, raising her eyebrows at the likeness of a fine young boy. She supposed it could’ve been a portrait of Rumpelstiltskin, younger, until she saw the name in the bottom corner, signed with his uncertain penmanship, more a splotchy scrawl. Remembering small clothing in a dark and dusty castle and the quiet murmurings of things lost, Belle realized what she held in her hand.

Minutes later found her breathlessly running into the sheriff’s station, interrupting the luncheon between Sheriff Swan and her son Henry. Running the whole way in the cold rain left her chilled through and frazzled, but Belle clutched the drawing close to her breast before spreading it out on the desk in front of the sheriff.

“He told me you owed him a favor,” Belle whispered softly, dripping rain on the linoleum floor, feeling more like braving to ask a pardon of a king. Watching Emma pick up the drawing, she steeled herself. “And I know it’s not the same, for me to be the one to ask it, but I have to try. You see... Mr. Gold,” Belle forced the name out with some difficulty. “He hasn’t... seen his son in a long, long time, and I think the favor he would have asked of you is to help find him.”

“How do you know the kid wants to be found?” Emma asked, half a chewed hotdog in her mouth as she looked back up at Belle, taken back at the quiet librarian’s frantic break in and the sudden display of emotion. She wasn’t saying no, though.

“I don’t,” Belle admitted, curling her fingers beneath the sleeves of her blouse. “But you see, he loved him very much, and I think... I think this once, you might understand what it’s like to love something so much, and realizing it tenfold when you don’t have it.”

The sheriff glanced at her son, who was across the room trying to dunk the trash from their fast-food run into the trashcan. “Yeah, I do,” she mumbled.

“So do I,” Belle whispered. “If I can do this one thing for him, Emma... please, help me.”

The sheriff glanced up at Belle suspiciously, her blue eyes narrowing. “Why don’t you just find him yourself, then? Why does it matter that I do it?”

Belle bit her lip, hesitating before she said, “I’m told you’re the one who can find people. And I have a lot to go through, taking care of Mr. Gold’s estate.” She shrugged one shoulder, offering a small, sad smile, “I’d like to have it ready for his son, when you find him and bring him back.”

Emma scratched the back of her head dubiously, staring back at the portrait with more interest before standing up slowly. “Well, I can try, but it’s not going to be easy if we don’t even know where to start. You realize this could take forever?”

“I know. I think he did, too,” Belle took a deep breath, looking down at the small white scar on her thumb. He’d spent lifetimes thinking he was a monster, though, and Belle couldn’t let his memory carry in the same fashion. Not when she knew him to be different, not when she loved him with everything she had. She couldn’t spend her life as a Mrs. Haversham, either (he would’ve laughed at that), and perhaps after all was over, she would find another heart to warm her own. But in that moment, she saw one last mystery to solve, one true adventure he had given her in the last works she could do for her true love, and smiled at Emma. “But he always was the one I’d give forever to.”


End file.
